


Index Cards and Periodicals

by its_mike_kapufty



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [31]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Never Met, Character Death, Heartache, Heavy Angst, Libraries, M/M, Unhappy Ending, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_mike_kapufty/pseuds/its_mike_kapufty
Summary: Going to the library has become what Rhett looks forward to most.
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Series: Tumblr Ficlets [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170695
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Index Cards and Periodicals

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags.

It starts when the blue-eyed stranger begins hiding notes in the books he leaves for Rhett - not written in the pages, of course, but tucked into the check-out pocket of the back cover. It’s usually an index card, and it’s usually short. 

“I loved this one." 

"I like the red sweater you wore yesterday." 

"I think Starbucks is overrated." 

Rhett always looks forward to the messages, ruminating on the insights like they’re morsels to internalize while he reads the book, shutting it and flipping it to the back cover after every session to mull the tidbits over. 

Bizarre as it sounds, after a few months Rhett knows the bookish man better than he’s known any friend - and in a manner that somehow feels far more intimate. 

Wednesday quickly becomes his favorite day of the week, if only for his visit to the library. It’s warm and sunny out when he skips up to the front door, letting himself into the air conditioned building. But there’s no book in their usual spot.

Rhett checks the shelves around it for anything out of place. Under it, on the floor. Nothing. 

He makes his way to the counter, raising a hand in greeting to the librarian.

"Can I help you, sir?” she asks, and he nods. 

"This is gonna sound kinda weird, but I’m looking for the name of a man who comes in here a lot. Graying hair, the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen…?“

The librarian smiles sweetly at him, lips pursed. "That’s very cute, sir, but I deal with a lot of regulars. Could you be more specific?”

Rhett’s still got his old book from this week, and sets it on the counter, smiling. “How about this: the name of the man who checked this out before me?”

The librarian takes the novel happily, running it under the scanner and checking through the logs. She stares at the screen for a long time, and when she looks up at Rhett, it’s pitying. “Listen… I can’t just give you his name. But you should go look in the periodicals." 

That’s where he hangs out? 

"Thank you,” Rhett bows his head, grinning, and jogs to the periodical section - its own closed room with glass walls. It’s quiet. Probably because there’s no one here, not even the aforementioned stranger. 

Rhett stands in the middle of the racks, glancing around, thinking maybe he’s missed something. And it’s out of the corner of his eye that a lovely a face grabs his attention. Printed in black and white - the stranger, stunning and smiling up at him from a lineup of portraits under the headline _Accident on Interstate 85 Claims Four Lives_.

* * *

For two months, Rhett doesn’t read, and he doesn’t visit the library. 

He knows it’s silly - he hadn’t _known_ Link. Hell, hadn’t even known his name until he’d seen the story of his death. But he spends the time he used to spend reading sitting at the front window of his house and staring out at the street. Should a neighbor wave, he returns it half-heartedly, because that’s what people need to not worry. 

It’s 8am when he bolts upright in bed one morning, gasping for air, and rushes to dress, mismatching his shoes. The doors to the library have barely unlocked when he stumbles in and runs to the periodicals, locating the one with Link’s passing, and finds the names of his next of kin: his parents. Unmarried, it seems, and damn if another year or two might not have changed that detail, had time been kinder and Rhett been braver. 

A phone call is placed following online searches, and Rhett’s watching the treeline around the library, feeling too pale and too tired in the cold morning sun. 

"Mister Neal?“ he asks when the line goes live, slipping his free hand to his pocket. "My name’s Rhett McLaughlin. You don’t know me, but I knew your son. And I was wondering if I could come talk to you?

* * *

It’s difficult to convince grieving family members that you aren’t a conman. But perhaps they saw kin in the red around his eyes, or maybe they’d realized nothing else could be taken from them once they’d outlived their only child.

Either way, they pass off a spare key to Link’s home with an exhausted shrug and warn Rhett that it won’t remain untouched for much longer, what with folks hired to shake it down of its memories and sell it furnished and all. 

That’s fine. Rhett doesn’t need long. 

It only takes one afternoon for him to go over and let himself in to the modest, brown-bricked home. To stand in the foyer and let his imagination run wild: picking Link up for their first overpriced date together; or the third when they decide to come here for a movie and dinner instead of paying to go out; what it would’ve been like when he’d pushed Link up against the wall for the first time, barely giving the front door time to shut; and even past that, returning after work to a home where someone loved him and the pitter patter of dog nails and tiny feet early on a weekend morning. 

He wonders how Link would react if he could’ve known the awkward giant from the library was in his home after his death. Too familiar? Or would he smile that way he always did, contagious and bright? 

Swallowing the sickly lump in his throat, Rhett glances into each room he passes. He had known Link and hadn’t known Link, and using what he still knows, has a place in mind he’d like to check.

The only fear Rhett has is snuffed out quietly by the reality of the book on Link’s bedside table, undoubtedly overdue with its little yellow sticker on the spine. He takes it, opens it. There’s no note in this one. Link hadn’t finished it.

But the bureau in the corner tells a different story - one of preparation and nerves, with index cards scattered across its bruised top. Drafts started and abandoned and crumpled up and forgotten, and Rhett reads some of the attempts meant for his eyes. 

"I think you’re handsome." 

"We should go get" 

"Do you want to maybe go" 

"I like that you read my books." 

"I’m sorry, I’m no good at this, but would you" 

"Here’s my phone nu" 

The hot wet burn sliding down Rhett’s cheeks flares his nostrils for a deep breath, and he can’t swallow away the new lump in his throat despite trying.

Quietly, he gathers the cards - otherwise they’ll be trashed by cleaners - and collects the book from the bedside table so he can return it to the library. He’ll pay the fine.

The library is a good place, after all. It lets Rhett visit alternate timelines, connect with people he might not have known otherwise. And it’s not often that he ever needs to spend money on a book. 

But he does buy one, for the first time in years. A copy of _Water for Elephants_. He leaves it on a gravestone with the receipt still warm in his pocket, tucked away like the index card in the very back page. 

Someone might read it, but not the person he’d intended it for. Just some poor curious straggler in a cemetery, finding words not meant for them: 

"I’m sorry we missed our chance.”


End file.
